Counting the Days
by blue.rose.spobette
Summary: The war is over, but the Ministry still needs the new Aurors to assist with occupation efforts. Ron and Harry have volunteered to go on a mission overseas to help. Ron has a job to do, and a promise to keep. Romance/friendship. DH Epilogue disregarded.
1. Prologue

_**A/N**__: Please keep in mind that this will not be entirely romance. The prologue is pure fluff, but following this, it will be a mixture of various genres. _

**COUNTING THE DAYS**

**PROLOGUE**

The war was over.

It was the mantra that Ron Weasley had become accustomed to repeating silently each morning when he awoke, for sometimes he still expected to see the furnished tent when he opened his eyes.

It had been done for over a month now, but Ron still felt at times that he may be living in a dizzily long daydream, or perhaps had fallen into comatose and was dreaming of the future. It pained him to think that, either way, Fred would not be around to live it with him. Or any of the other lives that had been lost…

Fred was one of the first things he thought of each day when he woke up. He wondered quietly if Fred was in a happy place in the afterlife, selling Wizard Wheezes to unsuspecting customers and chuckling under his breath as he awaited their reactions. He knew that George had taken it harder than anyone else in the house, though they had all had their time to grieve. A day didn't go by that Ron didn't miss Fred…but he had already gone through his share of denial and bargaining, and at long last had accepted that Fred was gone. He had died for a noble cause, and would forever be remembered in the history books as a brave soldier of the Second Wizarding War.

And now it would be Ron's turn to make an impact. Sure, the Horcrux hunt was a concentrated war effort, but he did not feel that he had yet proved himself worthy. It was with a swell of pride that he had applied to Auror's Academy, receiving a letter of acceptance three short weeks later, with orders to report immediately for a mission out of the country.

A swell of pride, yes…but also a cloud of fear. To disappear for four months without seeing his family? To begin on a new adventure without a clue of what his duties would entail? What if he couldn't hack it? What if he found out that he was rubbish after all?

"Ron?"

The quiet voice was barely audible in the dark, but its source was confirmed when he felt small arms encircle his waist. He had momentarily forgotten that she was beside him.

"Are you asleep?" Hermione whispered.

"No," he replied distractedly as he felt himself being pulled back down to earth, as if with the aid of a Portkey.

"Me neither," she confessed. She propped her elbow onto the bed and rested her head in her hand, peering down into his face. "What are you thinking about?"

He sighed heavily. "Tomorrow…and what all of it will mean." He had tried thus far not to think about it too deeply, for he knew that he would begin second-guessing his decision. However, it was all beginning to dawn on him at once, creating a bubble of uncertainty and anxiety within him.

She lowered her lips to gingerly brush them against his cheek. "You'll be great. I'm so proud of you," was her only response.

He turned to meet her chocolate brown eyes, studying their depths of compassion as intimately as possible. Her porcelain skin seemed to glow in the moonlight, accentuating the outlines of his favorite curves. A discreet pout was barely visible upon her lips, though he knew her better than he knew himself…and he knew that she was painfully holding back her fears and her worries, all to reassure his own. Merlin, how he hated to leave her…

As if silently reading the signals of his appreciation of her, she slowly began tracing indiscriminate shapes with her idle hand across his bare abdomen. Her eyes never broke their gaze.

"Ronald," she began hesitantly. He noticed that she bit her lower lip uncertainly, as if thinking very carefully about her next words. "Do you remember what we discussed…earlier tonight, I mean?"

Of course he did. How could he not? Following a row over Merlin-knows-what (he admittedly could not remember what the cause had been), they had simultaneously pounced on one another in a fit of passion, kissing in a way that they had never done before, physically pouring all of their ambivalence about the upcoming trip into one another.

It wasn't until she had begun to tug at his belt that he put an end to it, gently lowering her onto the bed to explain precisely why making love would have been a bad idea. How he thought that she only wanted to because he was leaving in the morning. How he didn't want her to make that sacrifice in the face of terror and desperation. How he wanted it to be the right time for her…

It was not that he didn't want to. Oh, no, quite the opposite in fact. But he was trying to be a gentleman and consider what it would do to her, and how much harder it would make it for her to say good-bye…

In a very 'Hermione' way, she had taken the rejection poorly. Being criticized in any way was never taken well by the woman, and she had embarrassedly locked herself in the loo for an hour. He didn't dare try to go after her, unless he had a clear death wish. In the time that she was sulking, Ron had drifted asleep, unable to keep his eyes open any longer. Truth be told, the chain of events was not the way he had wanted to spend his last night with her.

Now that they awoke in the position that they were in, he became aware that she must have trudged back to bed with him after he had dozed off. And here they were, about to hash it out all over again.

He steeled himself for another fight.

"Yes," he said simply, frightened to say much more.

"Well," she began quietly, pursing her lips in concentration. "You were wrong."

Wasn't that a bloody surprise? Hermione Granger, telling Ron Weasley that he was wrong? Unthinkable!

"Hermione," he began wearily, lifting both hands to rub his eyes.

"Listen to me," she continued sternly. The part of him that loved her dearly instantly obliged. "You were wrong because…well…I didn't want to do it out of desperation."

He remained silent to let her continue.

"I mean," she said uncertainly, now fidgeting with the hem of her nightgown nervously, "I thought that was the plan all along."

The plan all along? "Come again?"

"It's just…" She seemed to be on the verge of tears. "When you asked me to spend your last night with you…I thought that's what we would be doing. I was already ready, long before tonight ever came."

He watched as a glistening pool began to form in the corners of her eyes. She was avoiding his gaze now, seemingly self-conscious about the discussion at hand.

"Not only was I ready…but…" She shakily exhaled. "I was looking forward to it."

He studied her face. She looked so small and innocent in bed beside him, curled up beneath the covers as though they would keep away the demons. That's what this bed meant to both of them at that exact moment: it was a safe haven, where nothing else was able to bother them. It was their time, their moment, and it was within that little bubble that their existence was suddenly benign to the rest of the world. It was just them.

"You've…been wanting to?" he asked cautiously.

She scrunched her face up and nodded, fighting back tears. "I want this to be my last memory of you when you leave. I don't want to spend the next four months wondering what we missed out on." She took another shuddering breath and pressed on through the knot in her throat. "I want to feel as close to you as I can, and hold onto all of that with all of my heart."

He rolled over then, so that his body was flush with hers. He quietly probed the emotions in her eyes, to be sure that, without a doubt, he was reading her correctly. As she blinked, the moisture gathered in her eyelashes and trickled down her cheeks. Without hesitation, he reached up to her face to wipe them away. She offered a sad smile.

"I love you," she murmured.

He paused for only a moment. "I love you, too."

It was the first time that either of them had said it out loud. Knowing it within your own soul was one thing; hearing it from the mouth of your soul mate, however, was entirely different. It was as if an explosive charge had erupted between the both of them as they dove for one another, mouths locked in a passionate embrace. She tugged on his hips to pull him closer, sending a shiver down his spine. He parted his lips to her and eagerly explored her mouth, desperate to be as close to her as possible, feeling as though no amount of fear or worry could possibly ruin this moment. He fumbled beneath her nightgown to grasp her upper thigh, delighting in the pleased gasp that escaped her lips.

"Are you sure?" her murmured into her mouth gently.

With one swift movement she had sat up and torn the gown over her head, exposing her naked body. Ron's heart skipped a beat.

"I'm positive," she confirmed as pulled her hair loose from the plait it had been in. He admired her figure kneeling above him, marveling at the beauty he had appreciated in silence for so many years. How she had always been so perfect, and how he could not imagine feeling so strongly for another woman as long as he lived…

Before he even thought about it, he blurted it out.

"Marry me when I get back," he declared softly, reaching his hand to gently clasp the back of her neck.

She smiled through the tears that still persisted, her eyes glowing with affection. "I'll be counting the days," she whispered before wrapping the covers around their bodies and descending upon him once more.

TO BE CONTINUED


	2. Chapter 1

**CHAPTER ONE**

King's Cross was unreasonably crowded. Harry tried to discern how much of the presence was Muggle and how much Magical, but had been in such a hurry that he hadn't had ample time to study the occupants of the station. When he pushed through Platform 9 ½ (which neighbored the 9 ¾ platform that he was so familiar with), he became suddenly aware that much of the Wizarding population appeared to be here, seeing various Aurors and Healers off as they began their respective terms of study.

He had felt rather awkward thus far in the journey, for out of the corner of his eye he frequently caught Ron and Hermione pulling cutesy faces to one another. It had grown tiresome to feel as though he was continually intruding on a private moment between the two. It also made him ache for Ginny, who had been unable to accompany them due to a crisis at home involving a very pregnant Fleur and an inconvenient lack of chocolate pudding. He didn't quite blame Ginny – Fleur was a nightmare on a normal day. He couldn't imagine the frustrations the Weasleys were dealing with now.

"I still can't believe he's coming with us," Ron grumbled distastefully, scowling at Malfoy through the underside of his eyelashes. "Right foul git, to think he can be of any help to us…"

"He went through the same war that we did, Ron," Harry reasoned, his eyes following Draco. He noticed that nobody had accompanied him to the train station to see him off. He looked unnaturally uncomfortable when he was alone, reminding Harry of moments at Hogwarts when Crabbe and Goyle were nowhere to be found. "Maybe he just wants to leave his mark."

"Yeah, the_Dark_ Mark," Ron muttered. Hermione pinched the fleshy part of his elbow. "Ow! Blimey, Hermione!"

"I thought we all learned our lessons about assuming to understand someone's motives?" Hermione quipped pointedly. Harry did not need to use Legilimency to realize that she was talking about Snape. The guilt still weighed heavily on him when he thought of all the cruel accusations he had made of the heroic professor.

He purposely fidgeted with the hem of his Auror robes and pretended to be occupied with the Spanish family down the tracks. A very pretty girl, likely Harry's age, appeared to be pleading with her mother in her native tongue, trying to calm the sobbing woman's hysterics. She was dressed in Auror robes, as well.

"Tell me again why we need to meet at the bloody train station?" Ron grumbled irritably, clearly enduring some kind of internal battle about the way he was feeling.

"Didn't you read your pamphlet, Ron?" Hermione demanded impatiently, brandishing it from her bag as if to remind him.

"Now why would I bother when I knew you'd do it for me and give me the summary?" Ron asked cheekily, sending a flirtatious smile in Hermione's direction. She blushed profusely.

Harry pretended not to notice, fighting to hide the smirk that threatened to expose him.

"Well," she continued, as though Ron hadn't interjected, "it says that the location from which you will portkey is top secret and highly confidential. And that family members would not be allowed to see you off there."

"It's a bloody portkey," Ron persisted. "Can't they just change it afterwards?"

"Ron, do try to be a bit more cooperative," Hermione pleaded. "Being a disagreeable git isn't going to make a good first impression."

It was when Ron rolled his eyes good-naturedly and sighed in surrender that Harry realized something was off.

"No clever comeback, Ron?" Harry probed suspiciously.

"No point, mate," Ron conceded. "She'll always win."

Hermione smiled brightly, swooping in on him to wrap him in a tight hug. "I'll miss you so much," she murmured into his shoulder.

"Oi," Harry groaned impatiently. "Get a room, you two."

The flicker of amusement and embarrassment went unnoticed by Harry, who was too busy making a melodramatic gesture of shielding his eyes.

"Oh, shut up and come here," Hermione chided, grasping Harry's forearm and yanking him into the huddle.

"Right between me and 'Mione, where you belong," Ron agreed. Harry rolled his eyes and put his arms around them both.

"I can't believe we won't be seeing each other for four months," Hermione blubbered, wiping her face on Ron's chest.

"Oh, 'Mione," he declared with mock impatience. "Don't get weepy. We'll be back before you know it." Harry detected a hint of emotional upheaval hiding in the back of Ron's voice as he tightened his hold on the both of them.

"He's right," Harry agreed comfortingly. "What's four months when we spent a year looking for Horcruxes?"

One of Hermione's sobs involuntarily eked out as a giggle as she pulled away slightly to show her smile.

"Yeah…A year of smelling Harry's dirty socks," Ron quipped. "I get four more months of that!"

"Sod off," Harry chuckled. Hermione's bottom lip quivered as she dove back into the hug.

"I'm going to miss _both_ of you," Hermione amended of her earlier statement, wiping at the moisture that had begun to form in her eyes. Harry planted a kiss atop her head.

"We'll keep in touch, Hermione. And if you would…Keep an eye on Ginny," he pleaded. He knew he need not elaborate further, for Hermione nodded fervently.

"I will."

The soft hoot of the train whistle echoed throughout the platform. Hermione squealed in despair. As Harry caught a hint of the stare that reverberated between Ron and Hermione, he politely pulled out of the three-way hug.

"I'll go get us a compartment, Ron," Harry decided, giving Hermione one last one-armed hug. "Be good," he commanded jokingly.

"I love you, Harry," Hermione squeaked. He knew how she meant it.

"I love you, too," he chuckled with an amused smirk as he stepped toward the threshold. He chanced a glance back at them to see that they were now embraced and swaying on the spot, seemingly unable to let the other go. He smiled a bit to himself as he boarded the train and made his way down the aisle in search for an empty compartment. An older Auror with a misshapen nose stopped him as he began to proceed.

"Name?"

"Potter," Harry reported. "Harry Potter."

"Compartment five," the Auror provided.

"You mean to say we've already been assigned?" Harry asked, perplexed.

"Alphabetical. So's to check the roster more easily, y'know."

Harry's shoulders slumped in slight. He knew that this meant he would not be sharing a compartment with Ron for the journey. At least it was only an hour's ride…

He made his way down the passage, counting the gold-plated numbers above each cabin, until at long last he found number five. He slid the door open to get a look at his travel mates.

"Oh, bloody hell," a familiar voice drawled. Malfoy was sitting slumped, quite disdainfully, in the corner of one of the bench seats. "As if Longbottom wasn't bad enough…"

As soon as he had said it, Harry had noticed him.

"Harry!" Neville cried out joyously, standing to shake Harry's hand with vigor. "I was hoping you'd get seated with us!"

"How's it going, Neville?" Harry greeted back with a grin, happy to see that Neville's enthusiasm was as contagious as ever. He followed him towards the bench seat opposite Draco and sat beside him.

"Great!" Neville piped. "Gran was so happy to see me get my acceptance letter, she actually bought me another pet!" He gestured furiously to the tiny barn owl that slept peacefully in the luggage rack. "She said I need to make sure I have proper means of communication."

"That's great, Nev," Harry agreed, feeling a far-off twinge of jealousy as he thought of Hedwig. "What's his name?"

"Her," Neville corrected. "I named her Augustine, after my great aunt who passed last year. You see, she—"

"All right," Malfoy interrupted calmly, brandishing his wand. He was holding it out, handle-first, towards Harry. "Take it Potter. _Avada Kedavra_ me before I have to listen to any more of this rubbish."

"Bad mood, Malfoy?" Harry inquired, though he had to admit that Malfoy's melodrama was as entertaining as ever.

"Listen, Potter," Draco began, turning his body to meet the other two in a rather confrontational stance. "I signed up for Auror's Academy before the Dark Lord fell, when the Ministry was under His control and was recruiting. My father made me. But it's binding, I reckon, and there was no way to get me out of it when the reformed Ministry came calling…Father tried to negotiate…"

"You should be serving with pride," Neville protested seriously. "This is the time that you _should_ be wanting to serve. When there's something to celebrate, and when our generation can be a part of the final movements to put a close on this chapter in history."

Malfoy shook his head dismissively. "When you open your mouth, Longbottom, you might as well be Stupefying me."

Neville turned his head to Harry, arching an eyebrow and shrugging as if to say, 'well, I tried.' Harry noticed over Neville's shoulder that Ron was walking past the compartment with Dean Thomas and Oliver Wood, shrugging ruefully at the compartmental arrangements. Harry waved shortly to him.

"Ron's here, too?" Neville inquired excitedly.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Malfoy muttered miserably to himself, resuming his sulking position in the corner as he stared out the window.

The compartment door slid open once more. The pretty Spanish girl that Harry had seen on the platform was there.

"Compartimiento cinco?" she inquired politely.

"Er, yeah," Harry answered pathetically, recognizing the Spanish word for 'five' and hoping it would be the extent of his need to translate anything.

She exhaled heavily as she flopped down onto the bench beside Draco, as if exhausted. He sneered exasperatedly and attempted to scoot closer to the window.

"Neville Longbottom," Neville greeted amiably, ignoring whatever language barrier may be present.

"Natalia Peréz," she responded. "It's nice to meet you."

She possessed a heavy accent when she spoke English.

"You're not from Hogwarts, are you?" Harry asked, certain that he did not recognize her.

"No, I went to Beauxbatons," she replied. "Much closer to home."

"For the love of Merlin's pants," Draco groaned. "Do we have to talk the entire way there?"

Natalia studied him for a moment before turning back to Harry and Neville, bemused.

"Ignore him," Harry offered. "He's got a perpetual broomstick up his arse."

Neville snorted involuntarily at this. Natalia smiled.

"And you are?"

"Harry Potter," he said.

"Dios mío!" she declared. "Such a pleasure to meet you, at last!"

"You too," he replied pathetically. Neville sniggered.

"I don't think that's what she meant," he muttered loudly.

"You are a legend!" she continued to rave, a look of astonishment clear on her face.

Harry cleared his throat uncomfortably. "So, you're training to become an Auror?"

"Yes," she said, seemingly easily deterred from the previous topic. "My father was an Auror, and I've wanted to be like him since I was a little niña."

"Touching," Malfoy droned with a roll of his eyes.

"Malfoy's in a similar boat, you see," Harry began with casual disdain. "Only his father was a Death Eater."

Natalia turned her gaze to Malfoy, scandalized.

"Do everyone a favor, Potter: find yourself a Dementor and faint," Malfoy retaliated.

Harry sighed resignedly. Neville had crossed his arms indignantly and was now glaring in Malfoy's direction. Natalia looked between the three of them, perplexed.

"I can see that it is going to be – how you say – a bumpy ride?"

TO BE CONTINUED

_**A/N:**__ Just to be clear, as I know some people grow frustrated with OCs, Natalia will NOT become a main character and will certainly NOT be my Mary Sue. That is all!_


	3. Chapter 2

**CHAPTER TWO**

Nearly an hour had gone by when the train came to a halt. Dean was attempting to surmise their location by gazing out the window, appraising the surroundings.

"Nothing but countryside," he observed. "I haven't the faintest clue where we are."

"I suppose that'd be the idea, yeah?" Wood quipped as he stood, slinging his duffel bag over one shoulder. "Not _supposed_ to have the foggiest."

"All right there, Smith?" Dean pressed, looking upon an ashen-faced Zacharias.

Zacharias nodded fervently, gulping. "Super."

"Where do you think we'll be heading?" Ron inquired. A small signal of panic was rising gradually in his chest as he began to grasp the gravity of what he had committed to. "Do you think it will be dangerous?"

"Nah," Dean said dismissively as he began opening the compartment door. "The war's over. Can't be much left in the way of danger."

Though Ron wanted to believe him, he knew that Dean's comment was brimming with naiveté. Danger lurked around every corner in the Wizarding World – whether it be mid-war or not. There were always going to be certain wizards who were displeased with the way of things.

As they began making their way down the passage, they came in line with Harry and his fellow passengers. Ron took note of the exasperation on Harry's face and jerked his chin pointedly to Malfoy's figure behind them.

"Rough ride?" he chastised cheekily.

"Shut up," Harry muttered in response.

"Hullo, Ron!" Neville chirped excitedly. "Lovely day, isn't it?"

"Yeah, Neville," Ron agreed distractedly. "Gorgeous."

"I can't wait to find out where we'll be assigned," Neville continued, oblivious to Ron's disinterest. "I heard a rumor that Sweden needs intervention."

"Mm," Ron said noncommittally. He was too busy turning over the possibilities in his own brain to be excited about the prospects. What _if_ it were something more dangerous than they had anticipated? Would their lives be at risk?

His heart bled at the thought of Hermione, and her tear-stained face as they said their good-byes. The last thing he would ever want to do is break the promise he had made…

The hike up the rugged countryside to the Portkey had felt like an eternity, though it had only been a few mere minutes. The 20 Aurors-in-training came to a halt before their superiors, looking onward at a set of rusty pipes lying in the grass. Ron took note of the familiar faces in the crowd. He recognized people such as Seamus and Justin Finch-Fletchley talking animatedly towards the front of the ranks, as well as a handful of others he did not to his left. The undertaking was proving to be larger than he had expected.

"At attention, please!" Kingsley commanded. The students immediately formed a semi-circle formation around him and his colleagues and fell silent.

"It is a great honor to have you all stand before me, ready to brave the unknown," Kingsley continued. "Through many toils and despairs, the Second Wizarding War has now come to a close."

A brief round of cheering echoed through the ranks. It was Malfoy, alone, who stood perfectly still, stone-faced in protest. After a moment of celebration, Kingsley raised his hand authoritatively, and they fell silent once more.

"We have been asked by our brethren to the West to assist in dealing with the aftermath of an uprising."

"The West, eh?" Wood mused in undertones. "I think we're going to America, mates!"

"Though the primary locus of the war took place in England, The Dark Lord's support also ran rampant in our peripherals," Kingsley went on. "A number of high-security prisoners have been detained overseas, and our fellow wizards have not the capacity or manpower to maintain control without assistance."

A multitude of anxious whispering began cycling through the crowd. Kingsley did not falter.

"These prisoners are being held at what American Muggles deem to be an abandoned fortress named Alcatraz," Kingsley announced. "It, much like Azkaban, is located offshore on a secluded island."

Ron turned this over in his mind. Guarding prisoners…that didn't seem so bad. He chanced a glance to Harry at his left, who looked on impassively.

"I implore you to remember the nature of caution as we depart. You are not to speak of your location to your families, friends, or loved ones. Worry not – your post will find its way."

Ron stifled a grimace. The high security standards somehow nixed any semblance of comfort he had had.

"We will travel to the bay via Portkey before taking a ferry to the island," Kingsley explained. "The island's security is strict, and does not allow for any form of magical arrival."

"Not even Floo Network, sir?" Seamus inquired.

"Not even Floo Network," Kingsley confirmed. "Additional instruction shall be given to you when we arrive on base. Are their any immediate questions or concerns?"

The crowd was deafeningly silent. The sound of early-morning wildlife echoed in the distance.

"Very well. Then we shall proceed as scheduled." Kingsley approached the left-most pipe. "Compartments one and two, please step forward."

The ranks broke apart, members of the early alphabet doing as told.

"Compartments three and four," Kingsley continued, indicating the center Portkey.

"Guess the next one is us, mate," Ron muttered to Harry.

Kingsley walked toward the right-most pipe now. "And five and six will step over here."

The last of the crowd followed orders, looking down upon the item that would take them halfway across the globe. Ron felt a knot settle in the pit of his stomach. He had never been so far away from home before…

"At the ready," Kingsley bellowed. Ron, Harry, Neville, Malfoy, Dean, Oliver, Zacharias, and the Spanish girl all hovered expectantly over their Portkey.

"Hands to yourself, Longbottom!" Malfoy growled, struggling for elbow room.

"On my count," Kingsley called. "Three…two…one!"

All at once, they grabbed hold, the familiar feeling of a hook circling round their navels. Ron glanced briefly at Harry as their group was being transported through a variety of blurry countryside. Harry's expression still remained neutral. Ron envied his ability to suppress all anxiousness in the face of danger.

The ferry ride had been most unpleasant. Oliver Wood had muttered anxiously under his breath the entire time, insisting that the prospect of deep water terrified him. Malfoy, as was to be expected, rolled his eyes and responded with disapproving disdain.

"If you don't want to be here, go home," Dean had said at last, growling in annoyance at Malfoy's attitude.

"That's the plan, Thomas," Malfoy had replied with no objection.

Alcatraz loomed on the horizon, a massive fortress that, according to Muggle eyes, lay dormant in the Pacific. Looking on, Ron felt suddenly quite small. It was reminiscent of the first time he had approached Hogwarts by boat; only this time, he was much older and should have been much less terrified.

Upon arriving on land, Kingsley led them to a set of tents that sat quietly on the northern shoreline, looking quite out-of-place. They were organized in a neat row, giving Ron the distinct impression that these would be their living quarters.

"Dormitories have been assigned on the basis of job description," Kingsley announced, confirming Ron's suspicions. With a flick of his wand, a piece of parchment hovered before him and unfurled itself. "Please stand by for assignments and approach when you are called," Kingsley announced.

Harry glanced at Ron and held crossed fingers over his left shoulder, a gesture which baffled Ron. As if noticing his bemused expression, Harry muttered, "It's for luck."

"Oh, right," Ron agreed vaguely, mimicking Harry's actions. He could not easily imagine living with anyone but him over the course of the next four months…

"Natalia Peréz and Katie Bell."

The two girls stepped forward and offered shy smiles to one another, following one of Kingsley's assistants to their assigned quarters.

"Dean Thomas and Seamus Finnegan."

"Bloody fantastic luck!" Seamus gushed, punching Dean light-heartedly in the shoulder.

"Oliver Wood and Justin Finch-Fletchley."

The two dispersed.

"Viktor Krum and Steven Burbage."

Ron's heart skipped a beat. He glowered in Krum's general direction. "Didn't expect to see him here…" he muttered to Harry.

"A lot of people want to help, Ron," Harry chastised in return. Ron pulled a face of distaste nonetheless.

"Stellan Diggory and Billy Ireland."

"Diggory?" Harry demanded in shock.

"Cedric's cousin," Ron quipped. "He graduated with Charlie."

Harry appeared suddenly uncomfortable. Ron felt a pang of sympathy for him; Harry had still not quite gotten over being unable to prevent Cedric's death.

Kingsley continued to read down the list, the crowd growing smaller and smaller as he went. Ron was beginning to get nervous now, desperate to just hear the words 'Potter and Weasley' within the same sentence.

Then it came down the last four standing. Ron, Harry, Draco, and Neville remained. Harry was beginning to look perplexed as well.

"I've done the math and it doesn't make sense," he said hastily. "There's only one tent left…"

"Neville Longbottom and Harry Potter."

"Oh, bloody hell," Ron groaned. Harry shot him a sympathetic look before following Neville to their assigned quarters.

"You're kidding," Malfoy spat disdainfully, sneering in Ron's general direction.

"Malfoy – Weasley – follow me," Kingsley commanded.

"Sir?" Ron asked feebly as they fell into step behind him. "Sir, where are we going?"

"Private quarters, just down the shoreline."

"What for?" Malfoy demanded.

"You see," Kingsley began, swiftly making his way past the camp, "there is a very high security prisoner here. His name is Sven Olanofsky. A dangerous Death Eather from Russia who migrated here to join the rebellion."

"What's that got to do with the price of Gobstones?" Malfoy questioned impatiently.

"The problem is that nobody that currently serves here can go within a safe distance of him," Kingsley continued, as though not hearing Malfoy. Ron saw that they were quickly approaching a secluded tent, half a kilometer or so from the others.

"Why is that, Sir?" he asked.

Kingsley stopped abruptly. Ron and Malfoy nearly collided with his backside. He turned to face them.

"Olanofsky has Donkey Pox."

"Foul," Malfoy muttered, pulling a face.

"Yes, Mr. Malfoy," Kingsley agreed. "A very nasty, very contagious disease. Olanofsky has been in solitary confinement, quarantined from the rest of the prisoners."

"I remember when I had Donkey Pox," Ron quipped. "Mum made me stay with my Aunt Muriel until they passed, so nobody else would get them. Aunt Muriel already had them before and couldn't catch them again."

"Precisely," Kingsley noted. "Upon thorough background research, only two wizards on this entire island have ever undergone the misfortune of having Donkey Pox."

Ron and Malfoy looked at one another suspiciously.

"As it is, the two of you will be in charge of overseeing Mr. Olanofsky's care."

"What?" Malfoy cried.

"Sir, please," Ron implored, "I can't work with him."

"It has already been decided," Kingsley insisted. "And, as it stands, you two will be staying down here, away from the others. Though you have had Donkey Pox before, being around it still leaves you susceptible to being involuntary carriers. We have a healer on staff that will have to regularly detoxify you before you can be safe to interact with the others."

"Excuse me?" Ron sputtered. As if the idea of bunking and working with Malfoy were not bad enough, he shuddered to think that he would also be his primary source of human interaction.

"I'm sorry if the arrangement does not suit you," Kingsley stated. "But safety regulations must be considered." With that, he had begun to head back towards the main camp. "Please report at five o'clock for dinner."

"Shacklebolt – Shacklebolt, wait!" Malfoy called, jogging to catch up with him. "I need to speak with you – this is all a mistake - "

Ron grumbled irritably to himself as he entered through the tent's opening. As was custom, the inside was considerably larger than one would have assumed. It was quite cozy, really, and provided a full-scale set of everything they could possibly need.

"Good thing," Ron muttered as he considered the black hangings on the four-poster. "Since we'll have to fend for ourselves…"

He flopped down onto the sofa impatiently, crossing his arms. '_I'm sorry if the arrangement does not suit you_,' Kingsley had said. No. No! It bloody didn't!

Pig hooted softly from his cage across the room. Ron was momentarily surprised to find that he had gotten here before himself. He stood up and made his way to him, sighing resignedly. He poked his fingers through the cage, allowing Pig to nip playfully at his hand.

"I guess we'll have to make the best of it," Ron said, more to himself than to Pig. Pig began to preen his feathers, hooting softly as he did so.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Yeah, Pig…Easy for you to say."

_**CONTINUED**_


	4. Chapter 3

CHAPTER 3

_Dearest Hermione,_

_I can't believe it has already been a week since the last time I saw you. As much as I miss home, time is flying a bit now that we're busy. There's so much to do every day that it helps keep me distracted. I'm always thinking about you though, and how I can't wait to be home with you again. _

_Bunking with Malfoy is insufferable. If you thought going to Hogwarts with him was bad, you should be here now. He's downright miserable all the time and it's hard not to let it be contagious. He tried talking with Kingsley to get out of it, but no go. Too bloody bad – I was kind of hoping he'd get his shit and get out of here. _

_I miss you loads. I will be home before you know it. _

_Love, Ron_

Ron leaned back in his seat, interlacing his fingers and flexing them. Lengthy writing had never been his strong suit, and his hands always seemed to cramp quickly when he did so. He could hear crickets chirping outside the tent already – it was growing late. He would have to go to bed soon if he hoped to be well-rested for tomorrow.

He folded his letter with care before handing it off to Pig, who seemed all-too-eager to have something to do. He had taken off through the tent flaps before Ron could even say good-bye. Oh, well. He knew where he was going.

"Weasley," Malfoy muttered sleepily from his bed. "Put the bloody lantern out."

Ron rolled his eyes. Case in point – miserable to live with.

Nevertheless, he did as Malfoy commanded and began shuffling towards his own bunk, distantly aware of the sores that were burgeoning on the heels of his feet. It had been a long first week, and it would only continue to get worse from here on out.

Olanofsky – the Russian Death Eater that he and Malfoy were charged with – surely didn't make things any easier. They had to be on high alert when guarding him, for he was constantly attempting to play mind games with them. His latest idea was to try to pit Ron and Malfoy against one another by claiming the other had said foul things. Too bloody bad that Ron and Malfoy already hated each other and couldn't be bothered with listening to his rubbish. He had to hand it to him, though – he wasn't going down without a fight. But it was growing very old, very quickly.

Malfoy was awful to Olanofsky, as well. He was not taking his duties seriously whatsoever, and spent most of his shift trying to get a rise out of the ex-Death Eater. He would berate him with insults day after day, and he would throw scraps of food into his cell and laugh as he ate them off the floor. It was quite horrible, really. Not that Ron had any sympathy for a follower of Voldemort…but Malfoy had a knack for making feelings _like_ sympathy rise from the pit of Ron's stomach. Or maybe it was just bile.

Ron had considered reporting this behavior to Kingsley, but ultimately couldn't find the effort to care enough. It was admittedly rather refreshing to have Malfoy tormenting someone else for a change.

Ron slinked beneath his covers and allowed his tired eyes to flutter shut. He was asleep before his head had even hit the pillow.

* * *

><p>"He's a bloody nightmare, I tell you," Ron was saying to Harry and Neville the next morning at breakfast, gesturing pointedly to Malfoy sitting alone at a distant table. "I don't know how the Slytherins ever put up with him."<p>

"Probably isn't terribly difficult when you're cut from the same cloth," Harry reasoned as he poked at his scrambled eggs, yawning sleepily. "It's just a few months, mate. You'll get through it."

"Not likely," Ron growled. "One of us is going to kill the other before time's out. Or kill ourselves. One of the two."

"That's not funny, Ron," Neville chided indignantly.

"Right. You see? I'm starting to sound like him!" Ron declared brashly. "All morbid and doomy gloomy."

"Maybe you should try just focusing on your job," Harry offered. There was a hint of annoyance in his voice, but Ron ignored it.

"Easy for you to say. You try having that lazy bastard work your shifts with you, and _then_ tell me that's all it takes."

"Ron, honestly," Harry began. Ron could see that not only was Harry physically exhausted, but he appeared to be growing tired of Ron's complaining as well. "There's nothing you can do about it except try to make the best of a bad situation. The more you bitch and moan, the worse you'll feel."

Bullocks. He was right. But it was painful to even try admitting it.

"How's_ your_ job going?" Ron said, suddenly eager to change the subject. Harry rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"It's fine. I mean, how hard is it to make sure prisoners are getting fed and staying on their best behavior, right?"

"Well, then why are you so bloody tired?" Ron demanded.

Harry shrugged distantly. "Just haven't been sleeping properly."

Neville was shooting Ron a pointed look that he tried to understand. He attempted to understand the underlying meaning of Neville's gaze, but was having difficulty interpreting his message.

Ron was shaken from his reverie when the sound of the time gong cut through the entire dining hall. Plates disappeared and the Aurors-in-training began standing diligently, operating robotically on the schedule they had been following all week. Ron was no exception – he was on his feet before he knew what he was doing.

"I'll see you at dinner," Harry muttered irritably as he began heading in the direction of his station. Ron didn't even have a chance to bid him farewell. Neville, however, was taking his time.

"It's the nightmares, Ron," Neville said hastily. "They're back."

"But how?" Ron demanded. "He hasn't had one since before the battle."

Neville shook his head helplessly. "No idea. All I know is that he wakes up hollering at the moon most nights, and none of the Healer's sleeping draughts have helped."

Ron turned this over in his brain. He remembered vividly the manner in which Harry would wake up, disturbed by his nightmares. Only they weren't quite nightmares – they were real-time images of the Dark Lord's own thoughts.

Before he could ask another question, however, Neville was gone. Ron found himself suddenly alone as he began to head towards the quarantined building in which Olanofsky was being held. After a moment or so, Malfoy had caught up with him.

"Another bloody day of watching that arse," he was mumbling. Ron wasn't sure if he was talking to himself or to him. Or something like a bit of both. He simply chose not to respond, and subsequently the remainder of their journey was entirely mute.

Olanofsky's building was heavily guarded with various enchantments, mostly to ensure that his disease did not become airborne. There was very little ventilation from the outside – all of the windows had been sealed up with some kind of Muggle technology of bullet-proof double panes. A magical orb surrounded the post like a shield, keeping unwanted entities from leaving or entering. Too bad that didn't include Ron, himself, who would have been all-too-anxious to be turned away at the entrance.

Instead, all he and Malfoy needed to do was put one hand each on the orb. After confirming their identities, a gaping hole would appear in the bubble, serving as an entry-point. Once they were both inside, it would seal itself once more.

"All right, bugger," Malfoy began darkly as he and Ron entered the holding room. The room itself was nothing to gawk at, for it simply housed Olanofsky's cell, and a small area of chairs and a table for the guards. "I'm in no mood to deal with your bullshit today, so don't try anything stupid."

Olanofsky was slouched grumpily on his bed mat, staring daggers through the narrow slits between his iron bars. He said nothing. He was a dangerous-looking fellow, and Ron was reminded of the nasty posters that had been floating around of Sirius Black years prior. Eyes that may as well have been black holes of death and destruction, unkempt hair and skin that was in desperate need of washing, and a determined jaw line that could have cut glass.

Malfoy plopped himself heavily into one of the chairs, kicking his feet up onto the table. "All right, Weasley. I'm going to be taking a nap for the rest of the day. If you need me – well, that's too damn bad. Figure it out for yourself."

"Lovely, Malfoy," Ron grumbled sarcastically. As he sat beside him, he purposefully pushed his feet off the table. Malfoy simply put them back as though nothing had happened.

"Did you get your breakfast yet, you sodding arse?" Malfoy called to Olanofsky. He was met with some form of guttural noise as a response.

Ron rolled his eyes impatiently, standing to approach the cut-out area of the wall that often summoned meals and medication. It was the safest way for everybody on the island to remain distant from the pathogens that were assuredly bombarding the building, but still seemed a bit pretentious. Malfoy had nicknamed it the _Servinator 5000_, which Ron had had to struggle significantly not to laugh at.

Sure enough, he was right on time. A bowl of unappetizing gruel appeared on the platform.

"Oh, your lucky day, Olie," Malfoy quipped mockingly. "Gruel – again!"

With a flick of his wand, Ron magicked the bowl into Olanofsky's cell. The burly Death Eater merely studied the food for a moment, as if uncertain whether he was actually hungry or not.

"What's the plan today, Weasley?" Malfoy asked with forced enthusiasm.

"Thought you were napping," Ron muttered disdainfully.

"That was last week." Malfoy pulled his feet from the table and leaned over. "As much as I hate being here – and believe me, the company could be better, as well – there has to be some way to pass the bloody time every day. Because at the rate we're going, I'll be in St. Mungo's within a week."

Ron raised a brow. Malfoy seemed to suddenly have an epiphany.

"I'm brilliant!" he declared. "Why didn't I think of that sooner? Quick, Weasley – Obliviate me. Give it your best shot."

"Malfoy," Ron began tiredly, sighing. "You know that if you go insane, they'll just have you working with the Healers on the island? You won't actually get to leave."

Malfoy's face fell, and his characteristic glower returned. "Well who asked you?"

_You did_, Ron said silently in his head, but neglected to answer aloud. He was unearthing a chess set from his bag – one that he had brought with him from home. Malfoy was looking on, feigning disinterest.

"What's that?"

"What does it look like?" Ron retorted.

"It looks like a bloody board game," Malfoy replied peevishly. "Which, to me, means a time killer."

Ron stared at him, bemused. "Oh, so you actually want to _play_? With _me_?"

"No, with Olie over there," Malfoy quipped sarcastically, rolling his eyes. "Who else is there?"

Ron eyed him suspiciously. All things considered, Malfoy seemed to be in a much more chipper mood than usual. And with all of the unrelenting jabs he had already put forth today, that was saying something.

"Thought you were content to just ignore the fact that I was here with you," Ron began darkly.

Malfoy narrowed his eyes in his direction. Ron was reminded eerily of a snake. "I would love nothing more than to be anywhere else – with _anyone else_."

Well then. That was that. Ron was setting up the chess board, preparing to have a go at a one-on-one game with himself. Malfoy was still staring at it, conflicted. He then released an all-mighty sigh, as if he was being forced into something by threat of death.

"Oh, for fuck's sake, Weasley…I call black."


	5. Chapter 4

**CHAPTER 4**

The next couple of weeks on Alcatraz Island passed by without incident. The weather was growing chillier, and an ominous fog settling in the bay was becoming something of a routine. Ron was practically functioning on autopilot these days, trying his damnedest to do a good job while at the same time anxiously anticipating his return home. The feeling of ambivalence was difficult to mitigate at times, but he often chalked it up to good, old-fashioned home-sickness.

Malfoy had been, as usual, his typical arrogant self throughout their time working together. It was no secret that he considered himself above the entire operation, and found any excuse he could to sulk throughout weekly training exercises.

Today's lesson with Kingsley involved a wealth of physical self-defense tactics. The group of young wizards were largely inept at executing these skills, having always relied on the usage of their wands. Kingsley reasoned, however, that it was prudent to be prepared for all types of altercation. Malfoy was sitting casually on the sidelines, supposedly nursing a headache, rolling his eyes and jeering at his clumsy comrades before him.

Ron did his best to ignore him, concentrating on replicating the moves they had been shown. An exhausted Harry stood before him in a defensive stance, sweat pouring down his face.

"How do you tolerate him day in and day out?" he demanded, attempting to come at Ron. Ron easily evaded his half-hearted uppercut by ducking away.

"I don't," he scoffed. "I've been insanely tempted to kill him on more than one occasion."

Harry chuckled. Ron took advantage of his distraction, lunging in and locking him into his best chokehold. Harry struggled against him, his hands flying to the arm around his throat.

"Well, why haven't you?" he managed, vocal cords strained.

"If I'm being honest, he's the best bloody chess player I've ever matched," Ron declared. Their chess games had become something of a daily routine during their shifts, and Malfoy had come close to beating him a fair few times. "I reckon I need some kind of challenge once in a while."

Harry reached up behind him to grab Ron firmly by the shoulders, yanking him bodily over his back. Ron landed face-up on the wrestling mat, pausing to catch his breath. Harry was on him in an instant, pinning him with one arm against his throat.

"I should be offended that you don't consider me a worthy opponent, but I know I'm rubbish," he replied with a chuckle.

Malfoy began laughing derisively a few feet away from them, leering at Ron and Harry's awkward wrestling match. "I always knew the two of you fancied each other. Get yourselves a bloody room."

"Shove it in your arse, Malfoy," Ron replied with a roll of his eyes.

"Not likely. Potter seems more than willing, though."

Harry was on his feet in a flash, lunging in Malfoy's general direction. Ron grabbed him round the waist, holding fast to his flailing figure. Malfoy cocked an eyebrow, seemingly unfazed by this aggressive gesture.

"I'm fine. I'm FINE!" Harry hollered, at last roughly shaking Ron's hold away. His emerald eyes glared irritably in his best friend's direction. "Hadn't a clue you were his new _bodyguard._"

Ron rolled his eyes, preparing for their next round by squatting and raising his fists, paying close attention to his footwork. "Don't be daft, mate," he insisted. "I'm trying to spare you the trouble. He's not worth it."

Harry sent a right jab in the direction of Ron's face, an undeniably new sense of malice in his moves. Ron only just missed it, craning out of the way.

"Harry!" he said sharply. "You almost got me square in the nose."

"Don't let him get inside your head," Harry muttered darkly. "He's utterly poisonous."

Ron stepped forward to aim a practiced punch, but Harry was quick on his feet. "Funny, I thought you were the one defending him at King's Cross…"

Harry squared his jaw. "And I thought _you_ were the one going on about not trusting him."

"I _don't_ bloody trust him!" Ron shouted, finding himself growing more frustrated with Harry by the second. He put more force into his next punch, as well, nicking Harry just so across the jaw.

Harry threw a disbelieving hand up to his face to massage the point of impact. Ron faltered, losing his stance.

"Harry – mate – I'm so sorr – "

Harry had delivered a swift roundhouse kick to Ron's stomach. He doubled over in response, wheezing and gasping for air. Harry took advantage of this, rushing in headfirst to tackle him to the floor. Ron helplessly attempted to push him away, vaguely aware of the crowd growing around them.

"What the hell is your problem?" he growled, grabbing Harry by the shoulders and flipping him over so that he was the one in power.

"You have no idea what I've been dealing with," Harry replied with equal disdain, struggling beneath Ron's hold. Ron, however, held fast to his forearms to keep him in place. He was no doubt both bigger and heavier than Harry, and had no difficulty maintaining him. "The nightmares I have every night – the images – seeing you in a pool of your own blood on the fucking beachfront!"

Ron recoiled at this, climbing off and away from Harry. He stared at him in disbelief, attempting to register what he had said.

"What are you talking about? It's just a dream," he stammered. "I'm fine, mate – look at me!"

Harry, however, had jumped to his feet and brushed himself off. He was avoiding Ron's eyes. "They're as clear as they've always been," he muttered darkly. "And I don't intend on letting you get yourself killed."

Kingsley had only just reached the scuffle, nearly knocking Seamus over in the process. "Potter – Weasley – what's going on here?"

"I'm feeling ill, sir," Harry declared, clenching his jaw. "I'll be excusing myself to my quarters." And with that, he grabbed his wand from the shelf nearby, and stormed away.

The crowd was dispersing now, leaving only Neville to stand before Ron. He was looking at him apologetically, as if perfectly akin to the reason behind the fight. He extended a hand to Ron, which he gratefully accepted, to assist him off the ground.

"I told you before," he said in undertones, "something has really been haunting him in the night."

"But You-Know-Who is gone," Ron insisted, perplexed. "They're not those sorts of dreams anymore. The ones where they come true."

Neville raised a brow, a dark expression in his eyes. "You never know," he muttered. "For all we know, Harry could be a Seer – just like Trelawney always said."

Ron could not help but snort. "Really, Neville? Putting stock in anything Trelawney taught us?"

Neville shook his head in utter seriousness. "You never know. She's been right before." And with that, he, too, left Ron to his own devices.

Ron was mulling this over when Malfoy hopped down from his seat on the stool, approaching him with an impish smirk.

"Trouble in paradise?" he asked casually, as though he had _not_ just witnessed Harry nearly taking Ron's head off.

"Sod off, Malfoy," Ron growled, grabbing his belongings and heading back towards his tent. The sun was setting across the water, and he fully intended to go straight to bed and forget the entire mess. And hopefully, Harry would be wise enough to do the same.

But when the day dawned the next morning and Ron took his usual seat in the dining hall, Harry was nowhere to be seen. The empty seat beside him seemed to be emitting some sort of ominous foreboding, their previous disagreement itching unrelentingly at his brain.

"His bed wasn't slept in," Neville explained quietly as he nibbled on his toast. "I haven't seen him since yesterday's lesson."

And when the gong sounded to indicate that all Aurors were to report to their stations, Harry had still not yet turned up.

So when Ron and Malfoy sat down to their usual chess match in Olanofsky's holding quarters, he couldn't mitigate the racing thoughts that continued to distract him.

"Queen to E4…and, _check_," Malfoy declared triumphantly, assessing Ron's face. "Weasley, where's your brain right now? On holiday?"

"Fuck off," Ron muttered darkly. He had been thus far successful at dealing with Malfoy, but was in no mood to tolerate him today.

"Ouch, my delicate feelings," Malfoy replied sarcastically, lounging back in his chair. "No word from Potter, I presume?"

Ron had positively no desire to discuss the issue with Malfoy at all. So instead, he chose not to respond, concentrating on removing his king from danger. Malfoy's eyes were like daggers at his forehead, though, attempting to read the situation.

"Oh, blimey, Weasley. Come off it. Potter's fucking in love with you. He'll be singing your praises and bowing at your feet by sundown."

Ron scowled in reply. "This is all your bloody fault. You know that, don't you?"

Malfoy rolled his eyes, clasping his hands behind his head. "Neither of you have changed in the slightest. You're both still just as pretentious as before. Blaming everyone else for your own problems."

Ron gritted his teeth at this remark, fighting to uncover a witty comeback. He would never admit that there was even the slightest truth to Malfoy's statement.

"Oh, and you're so different?" he chided. "Finding entertainment in others' misery? Too bad you were never officially initiated into You-Know-Who's ranks. You would have had a ball making innocent people suffer."

Malfoy hardly batted a lash at this. "Yes, well…incidentally, that was more my father's pastime than my own. I'd much rather enjoy the show from the outside than in."

Ron was gripping his king so tightly that the tiny chess piece was calling out obscenities to its master. "We both know that's not it, Malfoy. You're just trying to save face for what a big, sodding failure you were. I'll bet your own father thinks you're worthless."

This was clearly the wrong thing to say, for Malfoy had risen to his feet and used one arm to clear the entire table from between them. The chess pieces cried out in surprise as they scattered across the room, the gameboard clattering noisily to the ground. Malfoy was dangerously close to Ron's face, brandishing his wand.

"You don't know a fucking thing about my father, Weasley," he growled menacingly, any and all traces of any previous humanity having vanished. "And if you so much as utter one more word of him, I will kill you myself. Is that understood?"

Ron was quivering inside, but did his best not to show it on the out. He stared down the length of Malfoy's wand and into his eyes, exuding antipathy.

"Deal. So long as you stop prattling on about Harry, we're even."

Malfoy considered this for a minute before withdrawing, seemingly accepting of the terms. With slow and deliberate movements, he relocated his chair to the opposite end of the room, lounging back and purposefully ignoring Ron's presence.

Ron exhaled shakily as he began to pick up the mess that Malfoy had made. The chess pieces were muttering bitterly in his direction as he placed them back into the box and away. He, too, settled for sitting idly in his chair, fumbling with his wand. He pondered over Harry's wellbeing and safety, optimistically convincing himself that they would be settled by dinner. Yes, that part of what Malfoy said was right – they didn't often stay angry with one another for long. Especially over something as trivial as this. Harry would need him – would want to discuss how stressed out his dreams had made him. Yeah. He would certainly be speaking to him by dinner.

The two wizards spent the remainder of their shift in silence. And though Ron detested him so, he could not help but wish the argument hadn't occurred. Malfoy was, after all, his new favorite chess opponent.


	6. Chapter 5

**Chapter Five**

It was a morning just like any other. Hermione awoke to the heavenly scent of tea being steeped and the chorus of good-natured familial arguments echoing up the stairs. This time it sounded as if George had done something, yet again, to provoke Ginny into starting a row.

"…if I have to say it again, I'll hex you from here to Durmstrang!" she shrieked from somewhere below. Hermione was sure she heard George simply guffaw in reply.

These mornings were both beautiful and disheartening. Each one represented one day closer to Ron and Harry returning home. But simultaneously, they had become something robotic and repetitive that somehow made the time crawl even more slowly. They represented an incomplete puzzle with two crucial pieces missing. And in that vein, it was sometimes difficult to enjoy the small comforts of the Weasley house without them.

She stretched emphatically as she pulled herself from the bed mat beside Ginny's single, stopping to assess her reflection in the full-length mirror on the wall. Stray fly-a-ways and bags under her eyes most certainly did not suit her.

"Good morning, dear!" the mirror chirped. Hermione smiled weakly in reply as she began to pull on proper clothes. As she pocketed her wand and began to head downstairs, she heard Ginny call out to her.

"Hermione! Post!"

She felt her heart flutter wildly in her chest as she took the stairs two at a time all the way to the first floor. Ron had kept true to his promise that he would write her as often as possible, but the mail had a nasty habit of being delayed. Some days she had no letters, others she had several. The days that she received something from him were always substantially more enjoyable.

She was at Ginny's side in an instant, helping her sift through the extensive pile of post. She eagerly grabbed a handful to peruse.

"You sleep okay?" Ginny asked without tearing her eyes from the task at hand.

"Sure," Hermione offered plainly. "Why?"

"No reason," Ginny replied…perhaps a bit too quickly. Hermione did not ask her to elaborate: she knew that there were nights during which her dreams were unbearable. She had no doubt that she must have talked in her sleep.

And she did not particularly want to discuss it.

"Nothing for me," Ginny said softly. Hermione felt her heart break for the younger girl; Harry's letters had been slowly tapering off for no discernible reason, and she had understandably begun to worry.

"Don't let it concern you too much, Gin," Hermione started supportively. "I'm sure he just hasn't had a chance to – "

She stopped short when she uncovered the next piece of mail in her pile. It was a letter addressed to _her_, from Harry.

Ginny hadn't noticed, but she was looking pressingly in Hermione's direction, as though waiting for the brunette to continue consoling her.

"To – to write," Hermione finished pathetically. She hastily slipped Harry's letter into the back of the pile in her hands, so as to be sure that Ginny would not see it.

"I'm sure you're right." Ginny forced a shaky smile, one that Hermione struggled to return. She was sure it came off as more of a grimace.

"Geeny!" a familiar French voice echoed from the kitchen. "Can you 'elp me get ze tea?"

Ginny rolled her eyes and sighed heavily. "I'm coming!" she called. Hermione winced apologetically; Ginny had been burdened with the responsibility of being Fleur's primary caregiver during her pregnancy. It had not been anybody's decision, per se – if anything, it had been Fleur who had taken a particular liking to Ginny's assistance. And Ginny hadn't been sure whether to be flattered that Fleur trusted her, or hacked off that the others were never asked to do anything.

Ginny smiled kindly, brushing Hermione's arm with sisterly affection as she retreated from the room. Hermione waited for the sound of the kitchen door swinging shut before collecting her own post and hurrying upstairs. She paused at the landing, deciding it was best to find a quiet, uninterrupted place to read the letters.

Ron's room.

As she entered, she felt a familiar sting of nostalgia engulf her. It wasn't as though she did not ever visit his room – quite the contrary. However, it seemed that each time felt just as overwhelming as the one before. There was a sense of _him_ in the room. As though some version of his presence hadn't quite left. It was always warmer here than the rest of the house, and Hermione was certain that it had nothing to do with the actual temperature.

She perched herself on the edge of his bed, sorting through the two letters in hand. One was from Ron, naturally – but the other letter, mysterious as ever, sent goose flesh down her arms.

Sure, Harry had written to her a few times, himself – but never before had it occurred _in place_ of Ginny's post. She could not help but be prepared for the worst.

Slowly, carefully, she slid her thumb beneath the flap on the front to unearth the parchment he had enclosed. With trembling hands, she finally succeeded in opening it.

_Dear Hermione,_

_I need your help. I haven't slept properly in days. Kingsley has been understanding about it for the moment, but I know that time is running out to pull myself together. I'm afraid to go to infirmary and draw attention to myself. _

_I'm having nightmares, like before. I know it's impossible, but I can't get past how real all of it feels. Just like they always have. _

_They're always about death. The people I care most about…dying. I wake up in cold sweats and can't feel my fingers or toes. Sometimes I think I'm having a heart attack. _

_Can you do some research about it for me? I know I can count on you. _

_Love, Harry_

_PS: Please don't share this with anyone. I don't want anyone to worry. Especially not Ginny. The last thing I want to do is make this harder for her. _

Hermione read the contents of Harry's letter several times before its meaning actually sank in. Then, with hands she had not realized were shaking, she folded it back up and stashed it carefully beneath Ron's pillow, where it could not be found. Nobody had dared to come into Ron's room, except for her. The one time that Mrs. Weasley had brought a bit of freshly-laundered clothes in, she had ended up sobbing for hours, and had not returned since.

Prophetic dreams? How could Harry possibly still be having them? The only reason he had ever experienced them before was due to his connection with the Dark Lord, witnessing real-time events as they were unfolding in distant corners of the globe…

She stuffed Ron's letter unceremoniously in her back pocket, knowing that she would not be able to concentrate on its contents right now. Instead, she bounded off the bed, taking the stairs two at a time back to the room she shared with Ginny. Her extensive library was still stored in the enchanted beaded bag that sat at her bedside, untouched for some time.

She plopped onto the mat, seizing the bag and dumping it upside-down. Book covers clattered noisily against each other as they rained out, and she began searching for the only one that had been rather untouched in her days at Hogwarts. She knew it was a good place to start, especially considering she had not paid as close of attention to it as she probably should have in the past.

And then she found it. The cover was shiny and new, in just as good of shape as it had been the first day she purchased it. It did not have the same wear and tear of her other books – the ones she had taken to re-reading on several occasions. No, instead, this one stuck out like a sore thumb amongst the rest. Just looking at it made her hate it all over again, but she knew what had to be done.

With an all-mighty sigh, she opened the front cover of _Unfogging the Future_ and began to read.

* * *

><p>Malfoy did not speak to Ron for the rest of the day. Instead, both had sat in complete silence during their shift, constantly referring to pocket watches in hopes that time would miraculously speed up.<p>

The next day was no better. Malfoy was still as cold as ice, and Harry had still not turned up. He was beginning to worry about him, and wondered why Kingsley had not acknowledged his absence. Something was starting to feel utterly broken and helpless somewhere deep within Ron's soul. He had never expected to feel as miserable and alone as he did in those two days.

He missed Harry sorely – he could not get past the fact that their last interaction had been a blow-out row, and he had not seen him since. It was enough to drive a person mad. And Malfoy…well, Malfoy had become something like a pseudo-companion during his time at Alcatraz, someone he had been forced to pass the time with when he could not be in his preferred circle of friends. And he missed his company more than he was willing to admit aloud.

Even the detoxifying healer had noticed Ron's sour mood before dinner that second day. She asked him a series of invasive questions as he sipped on his foul-tasting potion, attempting to discern whether there was something else ailing him. Questions about how he was sleeping, how he was feeling…if he felt hopeless or lost. He knew precisely what she was driving it – she wanted to ensure that he was not going to kill himself. There had been questions like this that he had had to submit to while applying to Auror Academy in the first place. And he knew that she was doing her job, but hated her for it nonetheless. He had done his best to answer with grace, despite the fact that all he wanted to do was hex her for badgering him.

Dinner came and went, and still there was no sign of Harry. So when Ron trudged back to his sleeping quarters, he was prepared to turn in for the night. The waterfront was eerily quiet this evening, and did nothing to improve his haunted mood.

He entered the tent somberly, mind racing at a million miles a minute, knowing full well he would not sleep. Malfoy was already in bed, staring intently at the ceiling of the tent as though it was playing a movie that Ron could not see. He did not acknowledge his presence.

With a heavy sigh, Ron plopped himself at the small table in the center of the tent. He considered writing, but could not bring himself to make the effort to unearth any of his materials. So instead, he sat there quietly, looking around the room as if something to do would suddenly leap out at him. Malfoy did nothing to assist in the process, only continued to lie noiselessly in his bed as though he was mid-meditation. The only exception to the hush was Pig's soft hooting noises.

And then – footsteps. He would not have been able to hear them if it hadn't been for the awkward silence in the first place. The sound of twigs snapping in the dry sand was unmistakable, and utterly out of place. Nobody was supposed to venture to this part of the island besides the two of them.

Malfoy heard it, as well. He was already on his feet, wand out, by the time Ron thought to glance in his direction. Their eyes met briefly, mutual confusion donning their features, but still said nothing.

The person was getting closer now. Ron could practically hear them breathing.

"Show yourself!" Malfoy shouted. "Show yourself or I'll hex you!"

The footsteps stopped suddenly at hearing this. Malfoy had made his way to the mouth of the tent, his wand practically shoved through the opening.

And then, Harry's face appeared, his hands out in a gesture of surrender.

"It's me, it's me!" he insisted, standing stupidly in the doorway. Malfoy had not lowered his wand.

"What the hell are you doing down here, Potter?" he sneered. "Do you have a death wish?"

"Not particularly," Harry grumbled, glancing pointedly in Ron's direction for assistance. Ron sighed heavily as he approached him.

"Stand down, Malfoy," he said with an air of mockery. "It's only Harry."

Malfoy's wand remained at-the-ready. He did not appear to care who was invading his sleeping quarters, only that they had dared to do so.

Ron rolled his eyes. "Fine. C'mon, Harry."

He pushed past Malfoy to guide Harry back out of the tent and toward the beachfront, and awkward silence befalling them as they stood there watching the ocean glitter in the moonlight. Neither of them said anything for quite some time, until finally Harry cleared his throat.

"I owe you an explanation for my behavior yesterday."

Ron shook his head shortly. "No need to explain, mate," he began. "It's over with."

Harry looked at him, stuffing his hands in the pockets of his robes sheepishly.

"It's not that simple," he added with a heavy sigh. "It's not about that. I mean, I knew we'd be okay. We always are."

"Of course we are," Ron said. "Harry, we've been through far too much to hold grudges over rubbish like this."

Harry chuckled darkly. "You always forgive me more easily than I deserve."

This statement perplexed Ron somehow. He had always felt the opposite – that _Harry_ was saintly when it came to forgiveness. Not _him._

"Not that I don't owe you a formal apology, as well…but it just seems secondary to what I have to tell you."

Ron studied his face carefully, awaiting the fallout. Something in Harry had darkened in the past couple of days, and he could not quite put his finger on it.

"I don't know what's happening to me," he started, looking back out towards the sea. "I'm getting some – er – outside help to figure it out."

Ron didn't have to ask. He knew in his heart that Harry was referring to Hermione.

"I've been having…_dreams_. You remember what they're like."

"You told me," Ron insisted. "And like I told _you_, it's impossible. The Dark Lord is gone, and – "

"They're not quite the same," Harry interjected. "It's…hard to explain."

Ron shuffled his feet quietly. "Well…try to. It's just me, mate."

Harry offered a half-hearted smile at this. "I would, if I could understand it better, myself. It's just – well – I have this terrible feeling that something bad is going to happen here. To us." He turned to face him, his eyes grave. "To _you_."

Something about the way he said it made Ron's blood freeze over in his veins. He did not reply.

"I've spoken briefly with Kingsley about it, but he hasn't a clue where to start. But I'm hoping Herm – I mean, my uh…_source_ will have some answers soon."

There were thousands of burning questions that Ron wanted to ask, but somehow couldn't find the effort to do so. So he simply nodded in response.

"I just wanted to let you know," Harry concluded briefly. They both sat in silence for a moment, digesting the conversation. Ron had the feeling that both of them were well-aware that they had not established any more definitive answers than they had started with. But somehow, that they both felt better for it.

"Thanks," he muttered.

Harry inhaled sharply, then released a mighty sigh. "I'll be at breakfast tomorrow. Hopefully I'll have something better to tell you by then."

Ron offered a sidelong glance in Harry's direction, taking note of the distress on his features. "If you need anything…you know…sooner…"

"I know."

Harry turned to Ron and offered him an appreciative smile. It spoke volumes in and of itself.

"I'll see you in the morning," Harry decided, beginning to trudge somberly back in the direction of his camp. Ron watched him go, wishing he had thought of something better to offer him. Though the conversation had been short and to-the-point, he knew that it was a load off Harry's chest to have it. Just as it had been for him.

When he could no longer see Harry's figure in the dark distance, he made his way back into the tent. Malfoy was lying in bed once more, lounging cockily against his pillow.

"I think you owe me an apology, Weasley," he began cheekily. "What did I tell you?"

Ron rolled his eyes. Leave it to Malfoy to gloat about 'I told you so.'

"Eat shit," he said instead, but somehow could not hide the smile that tugged at the corners of his mouth. In his own twisted way, Malfoy had actually done something somewhat kind by trying to make Ron feel better the day before. He hadn't quite been able to appreciate it until now.

"Close enough," Malfoy chuckled.

Ron resumed his seat at the table, feeling as though his head was going to explode from overload. He wanted to write a letter to Hermione before bed. He had so much to say now. He sifted through his book bag, trying to locate a piece of parchment.

"Bollocks," he muttered to himself. He had forgotten that he had used his last piece yesterday, and had been too distracted by everything going on to run to the supply tent for more. It was surely shut down for the night now.

Malfoy seemed to take note of his dilemma. He had risen from his bunk and unearthed his own bag, digging through it to reveal a stack of untouched parchment. He tossed it unceremoniously onto the table without saying a word. It was bizarre, really, that Malfoy knew precisely what Ron had sat down to do without so much as a word. Then again, it was simply part of his nighttime ritual. Malfoy had surely grown accustomed to it.

Ron studied him for a moment, confused. As much as he wanted to say 'thank you,' he couldn't bring himself to do it.

"You keep it," Malfoy muttered indignantly, as though trying to surpass any heartfelt exchange, himself. "I've had no use for it."

Ron cocked an eyebrow in his direction. "What, you mean you haven't been writing anyone? This whole time?"

"And who would you propose I write to?" Malfoy demanded with bitter disdain. "Perhaps my mother, who has taken to drowning herself in wine to subdue the pain of her meaningless existence, bereft of any and all hope of purpose or importance?

"Or would you suggest my father, who awaits trial in Azkaban as a result of refusing exoneration from the Order, for fear of bringing dishonor to the Malfoy bloodline and bruising his ever-persistent pride? Not that he would be keen to hear from me anyway, as he has disinherited me for being here and shaming the Malfoy name. Because you see, he will always live in that bloody corner of his own mind where the Dark Lord reigns supreme."

His eyes were fused to something far in the distance, beyond Ron's imagination. He mindlessly massaged his knuckles as he spoke. Unable to formulate any coherent response, Ron simply sat in silence.

"Some Dark Lord, right?" Malfoy scoffed indignantly. "I always knew it wouldn't last long. Couldn't even kill a 17-year old boy."

Something deep within Ron wanted to be defensive – angry even – at this comment. But the sheer exhaustion and disapproval with which it was said alerted him that there was no use. It was coming out wrong, most assuredly – but somehow the meaning _itself _wasn't wrong. He was openly denouncing any former allegiance he may have held to Voldemort on the grounds that he was not as powerful as he proclaimed, after all. And any surrender on the part of a Malfoy was a rare occasion, indeed, and was not to be tampered with.

"It was miserable, anyway. My mother and father never saw it, but it was so bloody obvious. Our home had been turned into his headquarters, our liberties completely irrelevant. To worship that kind of life is utterly demeaning. We're Malfoys, for Merlin's sake – we aren't meant to bow down to anyone. There's no honor in that."

Ron studied the dirt under his fingernails absent-mindedly. He had always known that Malfoy was self-absorbed and completely pretentious in regard to his lineage. But this was perhaps the only context within which it was acceptable – noble, even.

Malfoy shook his head quickly, as if deflecting his own train of thought. "Anyway. My mother surely hasn't noticed that I'm away, and my father likely hopes that I'll stay away forever."

And then, some sort of switch flipped, and his usual sneer of distaste had returned almost as soon as it had vanished. Ron could practically hear the '_whooshing_' sound of Malfoy's soul being sucked back into his body and silenced once more.

"So have it," he declared brashly, pushing the parchment in Ron's direction. "Have it all. I could care less."

Ron thumbed the corners of the paper rather guiltily, wishing suddenly that he had done more than sit around like an imbecile while Malfoy's human side showed its face for that brief blip in time. If he had sneezed he would have missed it entirely. He may never again bear witness to a moment such as this for the rest of his life.

He tried to think of some sort of profound, uplifting proverb that his dad would offer in a case such as this. Something about not losing hope or abandoning family. About taking initiative and finding great reward in its wake.

Reassurance that no one is ever quite alone.

But no such words felt right. Not for Malfoy, anyway. Perhaps Harry – or even Neville – but not Malfoy.

So he offered a pathetic "thanks" instead. Malfoy didn't even seem to hear him, for he had returned to his bunk and begun leafing through a comic magazine. His eyes were emotionless – pleasant, even, as far as Malfoy's pleasure ever went – as he sniggered quietly at the mobilized frames before him.

Ron stared at the blank piece of parchment before him, quill at-the-ready. He sat there for several minutes, lost in his own thoughts and unable to focus on the task at hand. The writing section of his brain may as well have been as clean and unused as the page at his fingertips.

"You're not having a stroke, are you?" Malfoy asked suddenly, peering over his comic book. Rather than worried, he sounded utterly frustrated. As if Ron having a stroke would have been a dreadful inconvenience to him.

"No," Ron said quietly. "I mean – I don't think so, anyway…"

"Then what are you doing?" Malfoy demanded. "I thought you were so desperate for writing materials that you couldn't stand it."

Yes. Yes, only twenty minutes ago Ron had had an entire novel's worth of commentary to relay to Hermione. A barrage of grievances and confessions and regrets. Only, he couldn't remember any of it now.

"What do you mean, you can't remember it?" Malfoy was swinging his legs over the side of the bed now, rolling his eyes at what he obviously considered sheer stupidity.

Ron grimaced. "What, did I say that last bit out loud?"

Malfoy ignored him. He was approaching the table now with his usual strut of superiority, surveying the scene before him.

"It's very simple, Weasley," he explained slowly, as though speaking to a child. He none-too-gently seized the quill from Ron's hand and began to write in a loopy cursive.

"_Dear Mudbl – " _– he paused, glancing carefully at Ron's expression before correcting himself – "I mean, _Granger_," he began sardonically. "_I want to snog your bloody brains out_."

Ron blanched. "No, no, no," he said quickly, reaching to retrieve the quill. Malfoy expertly pulled it away from arm's length. Though he ceased to continue writing, he proceeded with reading the rest of this imaginary letter aloud.

"_My only human interaction is with Draco Malfoy. Which, naturally, makes me bloody randy_."

"Oh, that's rich," Ron grumbled in his best attempt at sounding irritable. Unfortunately, he found himself chuckling against his will.

"_Too bad Malfoy does not like men. Or gingers. Because he is most certainly the sexiest man alive_."

Ron was clutching at a stitch in his side now, trying unsuccessfully to keep his laughter at bay. He wasn't sure what was funniest about this situation – Malfoy's sheer pretention – the fact that he had not smiled through the entire thing, which made Ron suspicious that he thought all of it to be true – or the idea that Draco Malfoy had done something funny at all.

Malfoy was looking particularly abashed now as he tossed the quill aside. "Well I got you bloody started, Weasley. Now have at it and put the light out. I'm knackered and you're keeping me awake."

There was some distant look on his face as he returned to bed, however, that suggested he was somewhat pleased with himself for his own performance.

"All right, all right, I'll be done soon," Ron promised. He rolled his eyes. "You go ahead and get your beauty rest."

"I've already stopped listening to you," Malfoy announced lazily from his bed. "So you might as well turn that bloody mouth off for the rest of the night."

Ron mimed zipping his lips melodramatically, unable to suppress the snide smirk that was sneaking up on him. The amplitude of realizations was becoming increasingly easier to mitigate as the days passed.

Malfoy was, at the very least, _part_ human. And that part of him had come to seek companionship whenever and wherever he could get it.

And, as with anybody else, he found enjoyment in the idea of making somebody laugh until their sides were sore.


End file.
